R18

"What the hell is this?" Misha squealed.

He hated his own voice. It wasn't manly, deep and coarse like Peter's, but somehow pubescent, though Misha was way over thirty. Once he gets excited, he would start to stutter, and when afraid his voice would go even higher than usually. Sometimes he would remember to talk slowly and try to speak from his gut, but it came across as pathetic, rather than manly.

"Stop it, already!" Nenad snapped back.

His voice was always explosive, loud like crack of the whip. He didn't talk too high or too low, but somehow inconspicuous. His voice will never end up on radio or tv, he wouldn't be invited to read the news or tell weather forecast. It was so average a voice that wasn't even possible to be mimicked because it was so unremarkable. Maybe a sound engineer could make it on their machines, while seeking for that average speech needed for a computer game to simulate rumor of the crowd. Nenad and his voice were, simply, someone from the crowd.

"Oh, shut up you over there, don't make me come at you" Leonard quipped.

Rickety, like his entire appearance, that was Leo's voice like. His boots were two size bigger, and almost dragging behidn him, so you would hear him before you saw him. Skinny limbs couldn't hold his uniform, so he looked like crotch with an overcoat. His dishiveled look was his forte. Many were fooled by his shabby outfit, taking him for a fool. And he was not a fool, more of a looney. Dangerously snappy, aggressive and always ready for picking fight.

"You will all get what's coming to you" whispered Crookey.

Mumbling so badly, no one could understand him, but they still tried to because he seemed like he's going to say something very important for all the mankind to  hear and adopt, so people leaned in struggling to decipher his rants. And they went on and on. Some people just mumble or speak to themselves, but Crookey held entire monologues to shame Castro's, all mumbled to himself. Some people thought he was simply chanting a prayer, as he would often make a sign of the cross absentimndedly with a well practiced precision acquired early in his childhood.

"Next!" nurse yelled.

Her voice was tight just like her impeccably ironed short skirt. Voice carried that kind of sharpness that comes from routine, not unlike a butcher who uses dull meat cleaver because he knows exactly how to wield it. Nurse's voice was well measured, piercing to the bone. Few of the people in the hallway jumped, not sure if the command was pertaining to them, but still striving to be the first to appear before her. She smelled of rose and jasmine, under the pungent odor of antiseptic, but it suited her perfectly. Just as perfect were her breasts, barely contained inside the stiff nurse uniform. They were hidden, but made themselves present in ripples of thin shirt that could be gleamed at, considering that she always left four top buttons undone...